Curtain Call - Good-bye 2008

There is something serene, yet overwhelming about the closing of another year. As the last few days of 2008 come to an end - the hours of another year dwindle - we are brought again to beginnings, from which we hope to gain new opportunities to do better by others and ourselves. Aside from the 12 grapes and the yellow underwear - silly traditions that have somehow followed me throughout the years - we have the importance of taking stock in all we did, or did not do in the ending year and hoping for more strength of character with which to improve in the coming year.

We have just come down from the whirlwind of Thanksgiving gatherings and Christmas festivities, finding that the ride was overrated and the destination somehow without substance. At some point, it all becomes a blur to us of mindless activity not fit for memory making. In its repetitive series of actions that culminate in similar reactions of gift giving and getting without meaning behind it, I find something lacks, but not enough that I would seek to begin a change to it myself. Yet when all was said and done, what did I gain from this and what could I have stood to be without? I want to have the wherewithal to address these wants and needs and to decipher one from another, so that perhaps some things can be different when this time rolls around again next year...

For my part, I chose to follow the traditions of my childhood and perform the dying art of Novena prayers in the nine days preceding the birth of Jesus. During her life, my mother strove to instill in us a kind of awe and respect for the true meaning of Christmas that is so lost in our nation and lives today. Granted, during her lifetime, I did not see the magnitude of her lessons and, also, lost much of my desire to pray along so that in the last years of her life, we were, if anything, present only in body at these evening prayer readings with her. I imagine that it saddened her that we - her children - did not keep to the faith she held so dear. Now, as an adult, I try to hold on to some snippets of all she taught, knowing full well that my faith will never be as strong and devoted as hers was, but that I tried to be better with it much too late for her to enjoy.

In particular, this year has been rough to so many people. Financially, emotionally and morally we have been tested. We have watched as liars, thieves, bullies and cheaters were brought to the forefront for judgment day. We had our faith in the honesty of our leaders tested and more often than not, we were painfully let down. We have had to stand by helpless as floods, fires, wars, conflicts, hurricanes and tornadoes turned the lives of our fellow citizens of earth, and our own nation, upside down. We came to the end of a presidential era many hope to forget and rose to the challenges of past prejudices to vote for change in such a way that our voices could not remain unheard.

On the radio yesterday morning, I listened as the reporter spoke of a new tradition in only its sophomore year. It is a tradition brought upon by much disappointment, no doubt, of taking to the streets of the City with pieces of paper containing the worst of our lives and bringing them to a giant shredder to dispose of. It is symbolic of our times, then, that this year the lines to the shredder were longer. The majority of people approached the shredder with the economy and their own dire finances written on paper. Others came to it with more common, but equally daunting problems, such as illness, loss, sadness, need, unemployment or failures. What a truly freeing experience it must be for these people, I thought. A way in which to symbolize not only the end to bad times, but the acceptance of things and then the desire to forge ahead and to resolve what can be resolved, or deal with what must be dealt with in our lives.

This year, unlike any other of my life, I will be without both my parents when the clock strikes twelve. My mother gone home to her God and my Dad to visit his homeland, are both miles of time and space apart from me. And though I should be content now to begin new traditions of solitude and quiet with my darling husband, he knows me well enough to know that without my family around, I will feel sadness and loss more powerfully than usual.

From when my memories began to form, midnight on December 31st meant the inexplicably soothing and engagingly comforting sounds of the Colombian National Anthem at the stroke of midnight. It played annually as a way to symbolize our parents roots in their adopted nation and to shut the door on the old and open up to the new. The subsequent songs that followed, ancient relics from our parents' youth, telling us what it all really meant to be up at this time on this day. Starting with the playfully sweet: "Año nuevo, vida nueva...más alégres los días serán..." (New year, new life, happier our days shall be...), to the old stand-bys: "Faltán cinco pa' las doce, el año va terminar, voy corriendo pa' mi casa a besar a mi mamá..." (It's just five minutes to midnight and the years is soon to end, I'll go running home now to kiss my mom...). We watched as our parents clung to each other in couples, dancing in a private circle amid the madness, reassuring us kids that all was well and good within our lives.

All of these sounds played side by side with all of the scents of my New Years’ past – the aromas of familiar, traditional foods in the ovens and simmering in the pots. The pernil along with the rice in its different varieties filled our nostrils and brought rumbling hunger to our bellies. The sides and sweets would follow and, as always, the next day – “the soup to wake the dead” for all those nursing a vicious hangover.

This year, I hope to have my brother and his little family over, but know that it may not happen. I brace myself for the countdown in Times Square, for Ryan Seacrest and Dick Clark to ring in 2009 in the lunacy of New York City. I wait for the ball to drop with only the memories of noisy New Years' pasts to comfort me. All around this grand family of mine whose many stems now reach all corners of this country will celebrate (or not) in their own ways. But like me, whether or not they stop to recall it, they share many similar memories - nostalgic moments that, given a chance to recall, would surely bring tears to all of us.

I don't hold out ostentatious hopes for some majestic reunion on a New Year's Eve to come. I know that our time to gather is passed, just like our childhoods. I know that to even fathom such an event, one would need first to provide the physical room for this grandiose undertaking. I know now that it is not just us, but our husbands, children, cousins and add-ons to accommodate, as well. I know all of the facts and, thus, I see the impossibility of it all.

I remain grateful, though, for the many years I was given to share in the madness of a New Year's celebration with my loved ones. I remain grateful for the years when all we had to concern ourselves with as kids was what we would wear, how much we could eat, play and when the first day back to school after the holidays would arrive. I remember fondly that when the clock struck midnight for every New Year's Eve of my past, bells, horns and whistles were blown, confetti was tossed and I had many people to hug and kiss and wish good things upon. And though these stories, fabled as they sound today, are forever ingrained in my memory, I hope that by the act of documenting them here, I have given them endless life to go on for others to read and to know that it did all happen - once upon a long time ago.